


Lady Lazarus

by anniesburg



Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: Animal Death, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Indulgent nonsense, Mild Blood, pre-canon because i can, unwilling circus attraction quintus sertorius
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 13:58:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13976598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniesburg/pseuds/anniesburg
Summary: A love story in three parts between a leech and a bird set against the backdrop of a Roman freak show.





	1. Turn and Burn

**Author's Note:**

> i wish i knew what this was. i just sorta started writing and didn't stop. enjoy!!

In the freak show there is more life than death, although not by much. The sunset bleeds over the red of the tents, fading day overtaken by smoky torches. The low light makes it harder to discern the suffering from the carnivalesque. It’s where you step in. 

Even in the darkness, interested customers understand that you are beautiful. They watch you contort and twist like a bird with no wings to catch the air, you only fly when someone lifts you. The strongman, muscles bursting at the seams of his skin can hold you in a handstand above his head for what feels like hours.

 Blood rushes to your cheeks after a few minutes and you hope no one notices how your arms start to shake from the strain. His strength is unparalleled, yours is merely mortal. 

Nobody is fed enough, not your or anyone else. The scarcity promotes desperation that you’re accustomed and you scavenge. If you can’t scavenge, you starve. 

Maybe that’s why you start feeding birds to the leech.

Your mother taught you how to rob a nest and cook an egg, but he doesn’t eat those. He just looks at them with confusion, his strange tongue pushing at the bars in front of his mouth. 

When you bring him the living, winged creature instead of its offspring his pale eyes widen in understanding. It’s not enough, but he’s fed on a whim with ever-changing rules for what counts as good behaviour. He’s inhuman, uneducated and often angry but your compassion can seem to set those things aside. 

He must be thankful for the offerings. It’s rare for the canvas covering his cage to be pulled aside, but when it is and there are no customers, he watches you dance. He used to be so listless, is still somewhat listless from injury and hunger but his eyes speak of intelligence, and they follow you.

He watches you contort and twist to music, watches as you bend but do not break. And then he watches you fly. Like the birds you sneak to him, you soar above another man’s head. 

Once and only once you see him while midair, your back arched in some mockery of freedom. You’re hanging by a thread from the sky, you see tears on his cheeks. 

Then its over, your hand reaches to grab the strongman’s and he pulls you in to rigid safety. His arms lock around you and you find yourself still looking at the leech. 

He can’t speak, but you find yourself wanting to say something to him. The mediocre applause from the crowd is usually a substitute for your dinner but their wonder doesn’t fill you like his does. 

You’re allowed to leave when the show is done for the night, the over-muscled arms release you from their uncomfortable grip. As you pass the cage, you run your finger tips over the dirty, blood soaked bars. You smile at the man behind them. 

When even the torchlight can’t bite back the darkness, you rise from your bed. Softly, you whistle to the brightly coloured bird in the cage. You’re careful not to startle it as you open the door, picking it up and holding it in a gentle grip. 

You know the way to his cage well enough, the ground is uneven in some places but the show is nearing its end in this clearing. You’ve walked this way so many times that the light of the moon is all you need. 

There’s shuffling behind the canvas, but he couldn’t hurt you if you wanted to. You whistle again, quiet and clear before transferring the bird to one hand and gripping the rope with your other. You pull the canvas aside and the moon strikes his unnaturally pale flesh. 

He’s on the ground, collared with the leash drawn tight until the back of his neck is pressed against the cage. You sigh and sit down next to him. If he’s surprised by your visit, his eyes barely show it as you hold up the little bird. 

There’s hunger in his gaze, then, although for the bird or for you— you can’t tell. Slowly, a smile spreads onto your face. 

“I do not want to hurt you,” you begin every one-sided conversation the same way. You hope that one day the leech will believe you. “are you hungry? Would you like this?” you look to the bird, its beady eyes shining. 

After a moment, the leech nods once and you inhale sharply. Your smile grows and he looks to you in confusion.

“I knew they were wrong. You are intelligent, aren’t you?” he doesn’t seem to know how to respond to that question and you shake your head as if to dislodge a thought. “Never mind. Here, take it.” 

You reach your hand through the space between the bars. He seems to understand, holding his hand out and taking the bird from you. 

“I am going to take the rods from the lock on your muzzle, now.” you find it easiest to narrate your intentions to him, even if he seems fixed on the bird. You do as you tell him, pulling the rusted metal from the sides of the cage around his head. The hinges squeak softly as you pull the front piece to the side.

Barely a second later and you’re watching his long tongue appear from the chasm of his mouth. The pointed end spears the bird and drains it in under a minute. He tosses the carcass aside and turns his head as best he can to look at you. The leech seems to consider something, the fact that his tongue can fit through the bars. 

The end touches one of the metal rods near you and the gasp you let out is one such intense fear that it startles him. His tongue retracts and he sits back. It takes a moment for you to realize that he’s waiting for you to secure his muzzle again. 

You hesitate to lock him away, if only because you know how impossible it is for him to fight back with his mouth and hands restrained. He could kill you, could kill the show master if he wanted to. He didn’t kill you, and you feel an intense desire to show some form of thanks for that. 

Rather than reach in and shut the cage with a flick of your wrist, your hand moves slowly. You touch his jaw and trace your finger up the curve of his cheekbone. He turns his head away from your hand, wincing and you shut the muzzle around his mouth again. 

“Give me the— bird, I’ll get rid of it before morning.” he does. “My apologies,” you offer up as you come to sit by the cage again. “I should not have touched you, but I feel as if I must thank you.” 

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t know how to make the words fit but you can see him trying. The leech never speaks to you, but you can see the want there. 

“Do you intend to do me harm?” you ask him and, after a long moment he shakes his head. The brightness of your smile could dull the moon, you’re so happy. Inching closer to the cage, you slip your hand between the bars again. This time you have nothing to give, and he looks at your flesh with something other than hunger.

You inch your hand towards his, demurely and slowly. Your fingers brush his and he seems to distrust it, but does not pull away. The courage in your heart has its limits, however, and your heart is still racing from his debate on whether or not to drain you of blood. You explore no further, but stay where you are. 

“Then we are friends.” he seems unable to place the last word, but you hope you can teach him the meaning. 

* * *

Your visits become more frequent and you spend your days finding birds and their nests. When you travel it becomes easier, but everyone sleeps lighter when on the road and finding time to see him becomes difficult. 

It offers you a bit of a break from the strain on your body. You can still fly for now, but it’s only a matter of time before you fall. You lean against your leech’s cage and tap rhythms onto the metal that he repeats back to you. 

His hand is so much larger than yours, and you’ve taken to repeating the word friend when lace your fingers together. He stares at the way his big, pale hand swallows yours but he does not seem revolted. 

If you can be happy, you’re happy now. You like to think the same about him, that even in times confinement and terror you’ve found a way to make his days somewhat brighter. He never looks outwardly happy to see you, but he squeezes your hand back. 

“How did you come to be here?” you whisper to him when the moon is full. He does not respond, but he does acknowledge you. You’re used to your conversations being one-sided, but have never minded. “Were you caught?”

You conjure up an image in your mind of the show master with his terrible whip chasing the leech through a blood-soaked forest. You rest your head against the bars and watch him shift. 

He’s uncomfortable, choking himself on the collar around his neck. You look to where the thick chain is attached, wrapped around a metal spike and tethered off. You do a double take when you realize the damn thing is unlocked. The master must have forgotten to do it. 

You point to it with a shaking hand. If only the cage were unlocked as well, tonight might have been your chance. The leech does not seem to see what you’re pointing at until you rise and show him. Your fingers are nearly crushed under the rusted metal but with a sharp tug the taught chain is unwrapped once from the spike and he leans forward more than he did before.

Counting the times the chain is wrapped around the spike, you give him breathing space and room to move. Sitting back by the cage in your usual spot, you reach your hand in and touch the dirt as if to ask him to come and sit with you.

He moves forward, hunched over out of habit but you know you’ve seen him stand. He sits in front of you, closer to you than he has ever been. You smile and take your hand in his out of instinct. 

“Do you have a name?” you ask instead, rather tired of calling him leech both out loud and in your head. “No?” he doesn’t give any indication if he has. 

Your eyes drop to his hand as they often do when you’re deciding on whether or not to continue speaking. 

It seems your silence unnerves him because he lifts his other hand, pushes it through the bars and puts them under your chin. He applies the faintest pressure and you’re looking at him again. 

“I couldn’t name you,” you sigh. “mothers name their sons and daughters, not me.” he seems to recognize mother and tilts his head a bit. Your eyes widen for a moment. “Do you have a mother?”

Again, there is no response but the hand under your chin does not leave you. 

“You must, mustn’t you? I do not think you a demon, nor a leech.” reaching your hand in towards him as he did, you touch his cheek. Where he once flinched from you, he now leans in just slightly towards your fingers. “Yes,” you decide. “you have a mother. One day, she’ll find you and she’ll name you.”

* * *

It’s one night after the show is closed that the dream is shattered like mirror. The tiny shards prick your eyes and you fight back tears when the leech is punished. You’ve had hands laid on you, the show master is unkind and firm in his belief of his charges as lesser beings. He seems to hate the leech worst of all. 

When he tried to stab the sharp end of his tongue into one of the men guarding him, the master calls for his whip. You hide your face behind your hands. The strongman has to shake you when it’s over, gruffly pressing his hand into your shoulder and forcing you to dry your tears before anyone sees. 

The leech drinks nothing but blood, does not sleep and has never touched human food. He still bleeds milky white. 

Something changes that night. He jerks his hand away from yours when you try to touch him and your heart sinks. Mouth set into a firm line, you hold onto the bars and pull yourself up onto your knees. 

“I don’t know how much more of this you or I can take.” you say, your voice the most serious you’ve ever heard it. The leech seems ashamed that you’re seeing him in such a vulnerable state, but even he can’t shy away from the determination in your voice. “You are miserable and I will stand it not a moment longer.” 

Without a thought to what you’re doing, you thread your whole arm through the hole in the bars. You’re able to touch his shoulder, your fingers tracing old scars where the whip cleaved away his skin before you found yourself under the thumb of the freak show. He doesn’t flinch away this time. 

“Take my hand,” you say. He does. “I will rescue you, I will rescue both of us.” you nod with more confidence than you feel. Your smile is pained but warm as his hand. 

* * *

You’re huddled in the dark when she comes. Past a cabinet full of curiosities, what sensation seekers would kill to see, she walks with nary a blink. You cave in on yourself, make yourself small as you wolf down your supper but she doesn’t notice you.

Not long after she’s stepped out of your sight, the strongman grabs your arm and urges you to your feet. The people want to see you. 

You’ve come to tired of the people and their vacant eyes. Where once soulful joy existed, for you did bright joy to others you now find it bitter and stale. Why should they be happy? Why should they be allowed to watch you pantomime flight when your ankle is ever-caught in another’s hand? 

The passion in you is only somewhat rekindled when you look across to find that woman asking to see your leech. You hate the way people stare at him, but are sure he hates it worse. You spin in the air and your vision is momentarily called away.

They feed him a goat because she asked them to, you plant your foot on the strongman’s shoulder and grit your teeth. They would not have fed him otherwise. She seems interested, whispering things to the show master and exchanging looks with the man in the cage. He sits and watches her with rapt attention, but his eyes flicker up to you every now and again.

You understand what she was saying that was so interesting when money exchanges hands and the chain around his neck is unlocked from its tether. The door to his cage opens. Your heart leaps to your throat, your leech has been sold.

The woman in the cloak insists he stand and walk, the crowd around her parts like she escorts a demon. They pass you by and you want to scream. You force a “No!” from your throat but the sound is not the angry bellow you wish it to be. It’s barely a squeak.

So focused are you on him that you fail to grab the strongman’s hand. You fall. Your back hits the dirt and you wish you could drown in it. You sit up before your able to and try to suck in the breath forced from your lungs. Your eyes scan the crowd, but your leech is gone.


	2. Great Concern

He is not a pompous general, clamouring for respect. His footfalls make the ground shake.  Quintus does not yet understand the necessity of running, the feeling of being chased by a long-armed shadow. He walks, he walks towards the freak show.

There is no sense of heightened dignity in him, how could there be? He has lived this atrocity, finds it difficult to stomach the laughing crowd on the outside of a cage just as much as he did on the inside of one. How can their enthusiasm be so limitless? Are they really so blind to the suffering?

Gaunt and familiar faces leer at him as he passes the rows of tents. He does not withdraw but instead tugs his hood forward to cover his face. Quintus was caught the last time by a man with a cracking whip, it will not happen again.

His sardonic bitterness seems to deepen, colouring his bones a sickly grey. _Disgusting_ , he thinks. _Braying like animals_. There is only a small margin between people and livestock. To most of his kind he’s surrounded by cattle. With a sharpness to his own thoughts that he does not expect, he crushes the idea that he is truly surrounded by sheep into the dirt.

This is hell-like, hell teeters on the edge of a precipice and at the bottom is the show. _At least hell is useful_ , he thinks, _punishment that is earned_. Sick children run by him and deformed performers are not allowed the chance to hide.

He has lived this, barely survived it.

Quintus understands now that the birds were a formality, a way to open up to him the reality of kindness for the sake of it. Even he doubts he would have trusted your hands if they were not the ones to feed him first. In you he found a semblance of regularity, of a human respect he had not previously been afforded.

You still called him leech, he remembers. But only because he had neither the understanding nor the hope to name himself, your voice never held any malice. You asked his name first, he doubts he will ever forget that.

He thought very hard about his name afterwards, after you sat next to him like you did with other friends in the show. Quintus had no place to begin when it came to naming, he couldn’t even pronounce yours if he wanted to.

Ancharia saw after freeing him that her son had words, countless words that fell around him like snow but very little understanding of them. He knew of grass, of mountains and rivers that he had never seen. She noticed he brightened when he read the word _friendship_.

He never told her about you, fighting back the urge to relive every quiet moment he spent with you. Sometimes he would play them again in his mind, try to remember the sound of your voice. After two years, it became difficult. As he lost track of his memories of you, his transformation from monster to man neared completion.

Quintus doubts he would have sought you out if his mother, lying dead in a cave were not at his back. The loss of her was painful, brought forth an onslaught of new emotions he had never needed to feel. Grief was something to twist the soul, he thought, until he realized that grief is human.

After fleeing the cave in which he killed the woman who had shown him boundless kindness, he thought of your promise. His mother found him as you said. He realized he wanted to tell you his name.

The heels of Quintus’ boots sink into the soft earth as he watches the strongman lift a four women he does recognize. They sit with legs crossed on a plank of wood held aloft by one, muscle-bound arm. They stare at him alone, there is no one else watching their performance. His eyes, cold and white look at the man doing the lifting, trying to remember a face he has never cared for.

He watched you, of course, but your earthly tether was never very interesting. Upon closer inspection, however, Quintus feels its safe enough to assume that this is the very same man.

“Enough.” he says, his voice civil despite its authoritative tone. It makes the strongman falter. One girl loses her precarious balance and slips, the man catches her in the other and lowers the remaining three before there’s any injuries. 

The women leave, looking frightened. The strongman stays in his place, if he is angry with the interruption he does not look it. Instead, he looks as afraid as his fleeing partners.

“What? What did I do wrong?” he asks, and Quintus’ suspicions are confirmed. He has the same haughty tone, it is the very man he saw two years ago. 

“Where is she?” he asks instead. He has no patience for the man and his foolish, bruised ego. “Where is the girl?” 

“The girl?” the strongman asks, looking in the direction the women ran off in. 

“The acrobat,” he pauses for a moment, his voice is coloured by unwanted sentiment. “the bird.” he finishes. The strongman seems to see him, takes a cautious step forward to peer under his hood. Quintus lets him. 

“The— by the gods, it’s you.” there passes a moment of understanding, of blind hatred. Quintus imagines he understands it. He got away, this man did not. 

“Answer my question.” he says, the edge to his voice as sharp as his sword. 

“She’s gone,” the man replies, his voice is cutting as a bullwhip. “took ill after you were sold. She said it was jealousy but the master— he knew better.” 

That throws Quintus for an unwanted loop, and he stalks forward. The strongman holds his ground, but his hands are shaking. He says nothing, simply waits for the terrified man to continue.

“The master knew she carried your curse,” he’s cut off by Quintus’ sharp inhale. The strongman smiles and it is sinister. “he didn’t kill her. We left her in the town we visit for the spring festival. Haven’t seen her since. She’s their problem now.”

Gritting his teeth, Quintus watches the vein in the man’s throb. _Disgusting creature_ , he finds himself thinking. _Twisted thing, not blinded by hatred but simply blind_. He denies himself the pleasure of watching the fear creep into his eyes. There is nothing here for him.

Before the strongman can yell, Quintus is gone.

You put flowers in your hair at the spring festival. Every other detail melts to a sound like clanging metal and dying breaths, but he remembers you put flowers in your hair.

The field is empty, stripped of grass in a ring that’s only starting to regrow. There are the wild flowers,  near the fringes and closer to the forest. They’re a reminder that life finds a way even if you dredge it up from the muck.

He’s very worried that your life, however, will not be as resilient if he has to dredge your body from it.

As much purpose as he has, Quintus begins to wonder if the intrusion will be welcome. If you are dead, perhaps it is best to proceed as if you were alive. To walk past the village, _your_ village would be so easy.

He can see you now, living a pastoral life that only exists in softheaded poesy. He’d rather like that life for you, growing things and watching the sky for winter birds returning. You’re safe in his mind, alive in his mind. Does he really want to damage the memory of your smile?

His thoughts turn dark, and he recalls the fading sound of your voice. Quintus wants you to know that you were right to trust him, that abandonment is not the only think you will ever know. He presses on.

The tavern in town is crowded and noisy, bursting with life and information. It’s astounding what people are willing to overlook when well into their cups. He pays for a few drinks, asks about a woman who’s lived here about two years. The answers vary from useless to potential leads. One man swears the woman he speaks of now lives in the woods, healing soldiers just come home from battle. Another says interjects that it’s a filthy lie, that Quintus will freeze in the woods before he finds that made-up woman.

It seems that there is but one option if he truly intends to find you. The woods are the only way, unless you really are quite dead. Something about that thought now that he’s closer to seeing you again does not sit right in his stomach. His anxiety refuses to settle as he stands and leaves, churning in him like blood gone bad.

A curious sensation replaces his great concern when he enters the wood. The flowers smell familiar, sweet with the undertone of dried blood that clings to him rather than the petals. He remembers when he smelled like death and you still voluntarily touched him.

You brought him songbirds and he heard you mimicking their whistles as you walked towards his cage. There was never a shred of disgust in your eyes, he watched you eat animals raw when you were too hungry to light a fire and cook them. You held out your hand and let him lick the blood from your fingers.

Strange, he never considered the gesture to be anything but kindly. At the time, he thought it similar to a loving girl feeding her favourite pet scraps. He understands now the gravity of it, how deeply you trusted him and he you. He could have stung you, drained you but you unlocked his muzzle time and time again with no fear.

He could have snapped your neck, there were times when Quintus was hungry enough to. But the silence would surely kill quicker than starvation, he theorized. Without you, there would be no warmth, no more birdsong. No more dancing.

Boredom was the primary reason for his surrender towards the voyeuristic, he can admit without a swirling of unwanted sensation in his gut. You were there, you were made to inspire awe. He was simply an onlooker.

But there was a moment when he watched you fly where he understood why the crowd cheered. For a brief second he knew the rush of watching the impossible. His awe was short-lived and left a bitter taste no goats blood could wash away. You, like him, were imprisoned. Profit stock, fodder for laughter, people waited to watch you fall and hoped that you would shatter your spine.

His contempt for others stopped squarely in front of you, and the great beat that was his anger bowed its head. You and his mother, exceptions to a rule he never wanted to put in place. Slowly, the hate is receding.

Quintus is stirred from his thoughts by the sound of a goat bleating somewhere far-off to the left. Stepping over dead leaves and moss, he moves towards the noise with his guard up. Alive or not, he prepares for the very worst.

The sun creeps over the arch of the sky as he walks towards the concentrated smell of grass and wild flowers. A single, human pulse sings in his ears.

He moves to lower his hood out of habit as it draws closer to nightfall. He thinks against it. Quintus is ready to turn and dart off into the underbrush at any moment, although he admits to himself that he would rather not think about why he would need to do so.

The house in the centre of the small clearing enters his vision like a warbly, red mirage. In the orange light of the sunset, the wood of the cabin looks to be spiked with a homely glow. He keeps his distance, lurking like a wolf at your door with far better intentions.

A small garden, the source of the smell of flowers sits in front of the house, surrounded by a fence with a latched gate. _Whoever lives here is safe_ , he finds himself thinking. _I could go._ _She could live here in my mind._ He does not move and it settles the debate, Quintus has never been one for willful ignorance. The front door opens.

The sight of you is enough to eat the breath in his lungs. You come to stand on the edge of your porch and watch the fading sunlight, leaning your hand against your cheek.

You look content, there are no signs of harm on you. Hunger does not cling to your bones as it once did, Quintus finds himself wondering what brand of quiet joy he’s feeling in response to this.

Something seems to stir you from your contemplations, as you look up. He makes no sound but you look right at him, seeing him in a moment of sublime coincidence. Your face contorts from happiness, true happiness to curiosity.

You leave your safe place willingly, pulling up your skirt to your ankles and taking the steps down to your garden. You’re walking very fast, almost tripping and Quintus finds himself walking forward without meaning to as well.

He watches your hands fumble with the gate and you wrench it open at last, rushing at him. He could kill you now, he thinks. You have no thought for your own life, only elation for the persistence of his. But he is not so cold, and he stamps out the thought of violence in response to your sincerity. He could be a monster and you would never know, but he is not.

You falter only when you’re less than a foot away from him. It’s as if you consider that your eyes cannot be trusted in this fading light. Quintus pushes back his hood, raises his chin like the proud man he is. You shiver.

“My leech,” you mumble and take a step closer to him. He cuts you off.

“Quintus.” he says. “My name is Quintus.” it’s in that moment your resolve crumbles like poorly set marble. You rush at him and your arms fold around his back. Pulling him into an embrace, he finds those proud shoulders stiffening.

“Of course it is.” he hears you whisper, although it’s unclear if you intended for him to hear that. Your hands touch his back carefully, as if still recalling the open wounds cross-crossing his milk-white flesh. It’s two minutes before you pull away. “How did you find me?”

He finds that question to be far easier to answer than what he expected. Anger, he assumed, would bloom in your chest but it does not seem to occur to you that there is another thing you could ask of him.

“Interrogating an old acquaintance,” he begins, looking down at you with pale eyes. “from our prior damnation.” your hands move to his wrists, holding them in front of him like a lifeline.

“They were happy as rats to see me go,” you say. “chittering vermin, they thought you laid a curse on me and I on them.” you shake your head. “Foolish of them.” he nods.

“Quite.” and the words die in him after that. “You were right,” a look of subtle confusion colours your grim humour. “I found my mother.” 

“The woman who bought you?” you ask, catching on quickly. Quintus nods. 

“Not biologically, but in every way that matters, I was her son.” you bristle at his past-tense, and he is thankful when you don’t claw at that fresh wound.

“Now _I_ feel foolish. How childish of me, to think about how I might free you from her instead.” you seem to say that to yourself, and again you fail to ask the question he expects. “It’s growing quite dark, Quintus. You must stay with me, as my guest.”

He stiffens as you step backwards, gently tugging on his hands in hopes that he will follow. He stays put. How he might have been able to subdue the very real fear of loss for such a length of time he may never know, but it spikes in him at the thought of entering your home.

“Do you know why I never came for you?” he asks, voice quiet as if he would like very much for you to ignore it. _Do not let go_ , he thinks. You squeeze his hands and the tight anxiety in him loosens. You shake your head.

“There was much I had to learn, much I had to process—” you squeeze his hands again, an act that should be a criminal offence. You shouldn’t have the right to put him at ease. The way you look at him now, again as if your own safety is a trivial affair nearly sparks an uncharacteristic rage in him. It’s soon to quiet. “I knew that if I ever did come for you, I could not stay.” you nod.

“That I can understand,” you reply. Nevertheless, you seem unwilling to let him go and completely unaware of how little Quintus wants you to. “But— I would like to get to know the man you have become, if you’ll let me. If only for a little while.”

Something in his chest, like the idea of a rib snaps in half and he walks forward when you pull. The warm light, he realizes, is not a reflection of an uncaring sun but instead of the fire inside your home. 

“You found your mother,” you say as you lead him towards your garden. “and I found something similar to mine. A healer found me when I was close to death, grieving the of you and all I had ever known. She helped me and taught me, too.” 

Turning to look at him, you release your grip on one hand and turn enough to open the gate. Quintus stares into the shadows the flowerbeds cast and understands their use. Practical herbs with healing properties cover the ground with only a small, dirt path between the rows. You heal now, how fitting.

“I buried her last winter.” you say with an understanding Quintus did not expect. You talk no more of death after that, shutting the door behind you. 

You seem fully aware that this reunion is not one meant to last. Quintus has a role to play in the future of the world that even he does not fully understand. For a few hours, ones he often returns to hundreds of years later, destiny and the coming of death are placed on the mantle of both your minds. You are enraptured with each other, with more entangled than just your fingers. _Beautiful_ , he thinks. _And fleeting_.


End file.
